Being Harry Potter
by dahlesreb
Summary: What would you do if you woke up as an ten year old Harry Potter? Here's my take on it. AU, Independent!Harry. WIP!


**Author's Note / Preface**

I've always been fascinated by the concept of a self-insert fanfic; what would someone do if they were in the shoes of one of their favorite fictional protagonists?

Unfortunately, these fics are often quite disappointing, and have acquired a negative reputation. Rather than thought experiments along the lines of Mark Twain's _A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court_, these stories are usually thinly veiled vehicles for the author's wish-fulfillment fantasies. They often lack meaningful conflict because the inserted character is all-knowing and all-powerful, has all of the attractive characters of the opposite sex falling in love with them, et cetera.

Despite this, or perhaps more accurately _because_ of this failing and the fact I have yet to find a compelling story in this subgenre, I'd like to take a stab at it. Many fics explore the idea of an older, wiser Harry Potter going back to his younger self trying to go back and do things better.

However, I'm fascinated by the idea of what someone who _isn't_ Harry would do in his shoes. This 'Harry' won't have the same emotional attachments and baggage, only an abstract knowledge from having read the books.

I really don't know how I'd handle things, if I woke up one day as Harry Potter, but I'm pretty sure that however it played out, it'd be a fascinating experience. Time to see if that's true!

**Chapter 1 :: **_Stranger In a Strange Land_

SWEAT beaded on my forehead as the sun beat down steadily as it rose in higher in the sky on a warm Saturday morning. Spring had finally arrived after a long winter.

I stopped for a moment, relishing the warmth and that singular feeling such a morning inspires, of having a day stretching forward with no obligations acting as constraints; the world was ripe with possibilities.

Closing my eyes, I tilted my head back and let the tight muscles in my neck and back relax. Unbidden, a sigh of pure contentment escaped my lips as my shoulders slowly dropped down.

Rolling my chin forward, I opened my eyes and squinted against the sunlight, looking around and assessing where my wandering had led me.

I had set out that morning with no specific destination in mind, simply an irresistable feeling of restlessness, almost a wanderlust; a desire to simply walk until I was somewhere I had never been before.

In an almost fugue state I had taken turns at random, allowing the slightest whim to take me hither and thither. Now I stood in a quiet alley, paved in cobblestones and too narrow for anything but pedestrian traffic. Wrought iron lamps were set into the stone facades of the buildings on either side of the road. Most were residential buildings, with numbers on small brass plates set into their doors.

However, one building further down across the street had a long wooden sign hanging from a beam that stuck out from high above the door. Walking closer, I could read the words painted onto it in ornate lettering:

_Caduceus Booksellers_

_Purveyors of fine rare and used books since 1846_

In the center of the sign was a carving filled with flaking gilding of a short staff, entwined by two serpents and surmounted by a pair of wings.

"Well, it's sure not Borders," I said aloud, intrigued by the little bookshop. My voice broke the stillness of the alley and startled a few pigeons in a nearby tree into flight. Crossing the street, I could see that the door had been propped open with a cinderblock.

Walking inside, the first thing I noticed was the smell. Dry, musty, and unmistakable, it was the smell of old books. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim light after the brightness outside.

Two rows of towering bookcases formed a narrow tunnel stretching off into the depths of the store. I began making my way down the aisle, browsing the covers. There was no discernible ordering to the books; the only thing in common I could say was the layer of dust covering them.

I wasn't surprised. Hidden away on a secluded residential street like this, they weren't likely to get much foot traffic. The only thing that surprised me was that they somehow managed to remain in business.

A gap in the aisle of bookcases led into another, even narrower aisle that slanted off into another direction. The proprietor really had an interesting way of laying things out; I felt more like I was in a maze than in a store. More gaps opened up into more forks, and I followed them at random, taking note of prominently visible and memorable titles along the way so that I'd be able to find my way back to the entrance.

Finally, I reached a dead end. Two shelves slanted inward, framing a tall, narrow shelf that bored a handwritten sign proclaiming it "Childrens' Fiction".

Not particularly interested in books for kids, I started to turn around, when I noticed something on the bottom shelf; a carved wooden box. Getting down on one knee, I pulled it out for a closer look.

It was indeed a box, with intricate carvings arranged in patterns across the entire surface. Turning it around, I saw that one face of the box was open. Within were three faded paperbacks. Immediately, a grin formed on my face as I saw the titles.

Yes, I thought. It was past time for a reread. Unable to keep a spring from my step, I nearly skipped my way back through the store. After a while spent wandering the store, I finally found what appeared to be a cashier's counter.

No one was there, but there was a metal deposit box fastened to counter, with a faded, yellowing sign that said "Pay here."

"Hello?" I called out hesitantly. Silence was the only response.

Shrugging, I turned the box around, and found an equally faded and yellowing price sticker for five dollars. Pulling out my wallet, I stuffed a bill into the small slot in the box and began my quest to find the exit.

Blinking as I emerged back into the brightness of the day, I was surprised to see the sun was well past its zenith in the sky. Getting lost in that labyrinth of a bookshop must have taken longer than it had seemed.

Noticing a comfortable looking, nicely sunlit bench in a small courtyard several buildings ahead, I hastened to it and sat down. A strange excitement coursed through me, an inexplicable impatience to read a book I had already read before, more than once.

I did not question it much; I always enjoyed returning to one of my favorite settings, a place of magic and adventure, filled with characters that by now seemed like old friends. A feeling somewhere between anticipation and anxiety filled me as I drew out the first volume.

Opening the cover, I flipped to the first page of the first chapter of _Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone _and started reading.

Then everything went black.

When I came to my senses, I found myself on my back in complete darkness.

Disoriented, I felt panic begin to rise in my chest, but quickly suppressed the feeling. I closed my eyes, though it made no difference, and focused on my breathing for a time.

Once I had calmed down, I began to assess the situation. Reaching down, I patted my pockets, but they were empty. No wallet, no phone, no keys. Had I been robbed? Kidnapped? Gingerly, I probed the back of my head with my fingertips, but felt no pain. I hadn't been knocked out with a blow to the head, at least.

Keeping silent, I slowly reached out my hands to either side, and encountered walls on both sides before I could extend them fully. Beneath me, I could feel a thin carpet. Moving my hands up along the walls, I flexed my stomach and slowly sat up, and again was not fully upright before my raised hands encountered a ceiling, slanting upwards.

Continuing to explore the walls by touch, I soon located a rectangular crack through which I could feel a slight current of air flowing. A door! Gently, I pushed in the center of the crack, but there was a quiet metallic click; it was latched shut from the outside.

Leaning back on my elbows, I slowly let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. I was apparently someone's prisoner.

Further search of my prison yielded a threadbare blanket, several a few pieces of oversized clothing and ratty socks, a long piece of string, a short, broken pencil, and several marbles. My mind cycled through possible ways to use these items to escape, but the futility of it soon dawned on me. I wasn't going to MacGyver my way out of here.

Sighing in defeat, I scrunched up the loose piece of clothing beneath my head as a makeshift pillow, covered myself in the poor excuse for a blanket, and settled back, listening. If I heard anyone approach, I was going to be ready.

But the quiet and dark remained absolute, and I was left with only my thoughts. Remembering anything was difficult, requiring an enormous amount of focus, but I refused to let my attention slip as I tried to recollect what had led to my present predicament. Gradually a picture began forming of the day's events. The pleasant Saturday morning walk around town, and then the odd bookstore.

My ears popped as my mouth stretched into a huge yawn, a sudden wave of exhaustion flooding through my body. Despite my best efforts to remain alert, my eyelids seemed to grow incredibly heavy, and then I was asleep.

Once again, my eyes found darkness when they opened. I had been having a strange dream, where I was being chased by an obese, purple-faced man with a ridiculous poofy moustache through an endless series of hallways. A rotund blonde boy would pop up from around corners, somehow always ahead of me, sticking a leg out to trip me or shoving me into a wall.

I had woken up right as the fat man had loomed above me, his beady eyes filled with a mad rage as his hands reached down towards my throat.

Unsettled, I felt no better as the fuzziness of sleep left my mind and recent events came back to me. Dim light filtered into the cramped space I was in through the thin gaps around the small door on my left. It seemed that I was in some sort of crawl space or attic.

I gave the door another tentative push, but it again met the resistance of and external latch. Sighing, I closed my eyes and and fought the rising feelings of panic and helplessness. They would be of no help. Focusing on my breathing, I began a simple Zen meditation exercise, clearing my mind of anything except my attention on my breath.

My heart slowed its frantic thudding with each inhalation and exhalation, the sound of its beating fading from my inner ear. The rhythm of the air circling through my lungs was the only thing I was aware of for some time, and it was soothing sensation, like the sound of waves softly breaking on a beach.

When my mind and body were fully relaxed, I slowly let my attention open up again. Instead of discarding thoughts as they arose and letting them drift by like fallen leaves in a stream, I began to examine them.

I always found myself to be in a heightened state of clarity in this post-meditation state, and soon a disturbing picture began to form in my mind's eye. The odd bookstore, the Harry Potter books I'd found, and then then passing out when I began reading the first one.

Now, I was locked in what could quite possibly be described as a 'cupboard under the stairs.' Was I the victim of some sort of elaborate prank? The only other explanation seemed downright _impossible._

My musings were interrupted by a thunderous cacophony of heavy thumps and the strained creaking of wood, and for a moment I was worried that there was an earthquake and that the entire place would collapse on top of me.

Then there was no time for thought, as I heard heavy footsteps come to a stop outside the small door to my prison. I scrambled into a crouch, adrenaline filling me as the latch was released with a click.

The small door was thrown open, replaced with a square of blinding light. Squinting and raising a forearm in front of my eyes to block out some of the light, I could see a hazy shape looming up above me, hands reaching down. I felt a dizzying sense of deja vu, as if I had just been transported back into the dream I'd been having earlier.

Meaty fingers grabbed my collar and hauled me bodily through the small opening. Grunted in pain as my shoulder met the the doorframe on my way out, I fell to my knees on a cream colored carpet as my captor released his hold. My eyes, still adjusting to the light, took in a pair of shockingly skinny, hairless arms where I expected my own.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I did my best to wake from what had to be a nightmare. A thunderous voice booming about above me disabused me of such hopes.

"Well, get up, boy! Breakfast won't cook itself, will it?"

The pure _wrongness_ of the situation left me paralyzed, my mind reeling for a rational explanation. Was I in a coma, locked into a dream from which I could not awake?

Such ponderings were cut short as I was roughly hauled to my feet and sent stumbling forward. I could see pristine, shining appliances through a doorway at the end of the hall. A kitchen - the words the man had yelled at me just sinking in - I was to cook breakfast.

Following a primal instinct to put distance between myself and my captor, I hurried forward towards the kitchen. Forcibly collecting myself, I risked a glance backwards over my shoulder.

The fat, moustached man from my nightmare stood there, glaring down at me. There was that deja vu again. My worst fears were confirmed; this could only be some kind of coma-induced hallucination. I was trapped.

Quickly weighing my limited options, I decided the safest strategy would be to play along. Fortunately the kitchen was arranged logically enough and I had no trouble preparing a basic meal of bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast, along with some tea and orange juice. As I went through the familiar motions of cooking breakfast, I tried to assess my situation.

I had to accept what I had previously considered but rejected as extremely unlikely - I was locked into some sort of Harry Potter-themed nightmare. I could only guess as to the cause of my predicament; perhaps I'd experienced a seizure, and my mind had fixed on the last thing it had been focused on; the first chapter of the Harry Potter saga.


End file.
